


Just Remember 'Til You're Home Again

by writesometimes



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Illya is secretly a mother hen, M/M, Minor Injuries, Napoleon loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 09:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15969809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writesometimes/pseuds/writesometimes
Summary: When Napoleon is injured on a mission, Illya tries his best to help him recover without revealing how deeply he cares for him. Napoleon struggles to figure out his own feelings in the process. Illya sends him trinkets from his travels when he's called away for work.





	Just Remember 'Til You're Home Again

Napoleon was sprinting full speed down a dark alleyway as he watched his target dart around a corner. He jerked to his right to follow and his knee exploded in pain. He yelped loudly as he crumpled to the ground. Gaby was in his ear immediately, demanding to know what had happened. Napoleon assured her he was fine and to continue pursuing their target. He squeezed his eyes shut, rolled over onto his side, clutched his knee, and groaned. Suddenly, a large shadow hovered over him, blocking out the moonlight that had been illuminating the alleyway.

"What happened?" the large shadow demanded in a rough, Russian accent.

Napoleon opened his eyes and stared up at his partner. It had been a little over a year since they'd all started working together and Napoleon still couldn't exactly figure Illya out. Some days he could be all business, almost cold. Other days he seemed like an old friend, warm and sociable. Napoleon was hoping it was a friendly day as he stared up into the blue eyes of the Russian.

"I think I... pulled something trying to take the turn," Napoleon explained, gesturing toward the fork in the alley. "I'm fine though, hurt my pride more than anything."

Illya grunted in acknowledgment and stared down into the darkness of the alley as tires screeched off in the distance. "I think Gaby has it handled," he mused.

Napoleon nodded and tried to stand. His knee screamed in protest and he fell back to the hard asphalt. He clutched at his leg and hissed in pain.

Illya knelt down and put his hand on Napoleon's shoulder gently. "Are you getting old, Cowboy?" he asked playfully.

"Ha ha," Napoleon deadpanned. "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me up?"

Illya stood and tilted his head to the side, studying Napoleon for a minute. Napoleon squirmed a bit under his gaze. Finally, Illya held out his hand and helped Napoleon up. The American hissed in pain once again. "We should call for medical team," Illya insisted as he watched Napoleon hobble alongside him.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "I'm fine, truly. Walk it off, right?"

"You are not walking," Illya pointed out stubbornly.

Napoleon glanced over at Illya. It could have been the searing pain playing tricks on him, or the gentle moonlight softening his features, but the Russian looked concerned. He sighed. "Fine, we'll call for a medical team."

A torn ACL was not the diagnosis Napoleon had been expecting. He laid back on the stretcher inside the small medical van and took a deep breath. He was going to be out of commission for a while.

Illya stood outside the van, fists balled around his hat, knuckles white. Medical staff reassured the Russian everything would be okay, and shut the van doors. They were off quickly to a hospital. Illya worried his lower lip as the medical van disappeared from view.

* * *

Napoleon swung his legs out of bed and reached for his crutches immediately. He was grounded for at least six months following surgery to repair his torn ACL. Weekly physical therapy sessions had been scheduled, medications had been prescribed, and Napoleon was exhausted. He'd woken up in a bright hospital room two weeks ago with his leg in heavy bandages and a nervous Illya standing over him. The Russian had reassured him everything was fine, and that he'd do whatever he could to help. 

Illya had gone to Napoleon's apartment every morning to help him get out of bed and get some breakfast. He always sat silently at the small kitchen table, picking at his own eggs, as he stared worriedly at Napoleon as they ate. He'd taken Napoleon to all of his doctor's appointments, watching carefully as doctors poked and prodded and scribbled notes. He'd taken the man grocery shopping and stalked down aisle after aisle looking for all of the American's pricey ingredients. He'd helped until he couldn't anymore.

Illya had stood rooted in the doorway of Napoleon's apartment a few nights ago, a tortured look on his face, as he explained that he and Gaby were needed abroad for an assignment. He couldn't say where they were going, but they had to leave the next day. Napoleon had given him an understanding smile and wished him luck, all the while trying not to panic.

Napoleon sighed as he thought about Illya's forlorn eyes that night, decided against exploring that particular emotional minefield, and hobbled his way to the kitchen. He stared daggers at his empty coffee pot. Illya had made his coffee every morning since...

Napoleon shook his head. He was a grown man, he could figure this out.

It took roughly two hours, but Napoleon managed to make some breakfast and get himself showered on his own. He was just about to deposit himself in his armchair for the rest of the day with a book, when the mail slid through the slot of his front door and fell to the floor. He winced as he leaned down very carefully and snatched the pile of envelopes off the floor.

A brightly colored piece of paper caught Napoleon's eye and he shuffled it to the top of the pile. It was a postcard featuring the Pyramids, Sphinx and bright blue skies of Egypt. No return address. One simple word scrawled on the back. _Rest_. Napoleon smiled and hobbled into his living room.

* * *

"You are doing better, Cowboy," Illya said with pride as he watched Napoleon during his physical therapy appointment. 

Napoleon looked up from where he was carefully watching his own steps and smiled brightly at Illya. "Thank you, Peril. I know how hard it must be for you, admitting that I'm doing well with something," he laughed.

A hurt look clouded Illya's face for a brief moment before he stared down at his own shoes. Napoleon stumbled and cursed under his breath. Illya darted forward and then stopped abruptly when the nurse reached out and offered a steady hand to Napoleon.

"I think you should rest now," Illya said seriously.

"Nonsense, I could go all day," Napoleon said airily as he winked at the nurse.

Illya grumbled something from the corner of the room and rolled his eyes.

"I think your friend is right, Mr. Solo. You've made a lot of progress but I think you've done enough for the day," the nurse said sweetly as she released Napoleon's arm.

Napoleon hummed in disappointment and watched as the nurse gathered up medical charts and made her way out of the room. Illya crossed the room and shoved Napoleon's crutches at him. "She will still be here next week," he said sourly.

Napoleon propped the crutches beneath his arms and shot Illya a confused glance. "Jealous, Peril?" he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Illya said nothing as he held the door open for Napoleon. He said nothing as they waited in the small elevator, or when they waited on the sidewalk for a cab. He was silent until they arrived at Napoleon's front door.

Napoleon struggled to fish his keys from his pocket while trying to keep his crutches beneath his arms. It took him a minute but he finally got the door unlocked. Illya cleared his throat as the front door swung open. "I won't be able to go to next appointment," Illya said quietly.

Napoleon chewed the inside of his lip. "Another assignment already?"

"Yes," Illya said curtly. "I am sorry, Cowboy."

"No apologies necessary, Peril. I understand." Napoleon gave him a toothy grin and hobbled into his apartment. "Doesn't mean you can't stay for dinner though. I can't cook anything fancy of course but --"

"I have to leave tonight," Illya interrupted, regret lacing his words.

Napoleon swayed on his crutches. Illya's hand darted out immediately to steady him. "I can have Waverly send nurse for you while I'm gone," Illya suggested quietly.

"I'll be fine, Peril, really. I managed last time." Napoleon tried not to focus on the warmth on his his arm where Illya was still touching him.

Illya gave him a small smile. "I know you did, Cowboy. But I..." the words died in his throat when he met Napoleon's eyes. How could he say that he worried about the American, cared for him a great deal, just before he was about to leave and unsure of when he would return. "I should go prepare for trip," he blurted.

Napoleon inhaled sharply and nodded. "Of course." And just like that, he was standing in his doorway, alone. He shut the door and leaned against it inside his apartment. He wasn't sure if he'd ever figure his partner out. He didn't even know if he had himself figured out if he was being honest. His stomach rumbled loudly. "Might as well make dinner," he mumbled to himself and made his way to his kitchen. His thoughts on Illya could wait until he'd eaten.

A week later Napoleon was standing outside his apartment, fumbling for his keys once again following a physical therapy appointment. Heavy footsteps made their way through the hall and he spotted his elderly mailman approaching, a wide grin on his face.

"Mr. Solo! Need some help?"

"No, no, Stan, I've got it. Just takes me a minute." Finally, the lock clicked and he opened his front door. "Any mail for me today?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. Just a few a pieces but..." he sorted through a stack of envelopes quickly until he found what he was looking for. "Ah! Here it is!" He handed Napoleon a few envelopes and a postcard. "Did you take long distance sweetheart, Mr. Solo?" the man asked, waggling his eyebrows.

Napoleon shot him a puzzled look and then studied the postcard. It was of an open air market, brightly colored goods of all sorts on display on a sunny day. Once again, no return address. A simple message was scrawled on the back.  _Home soon_. Napoleon smiled fondly down at the sloppy writing.

"Just a friend, Stan. Just a friend," Napoleon laughed as he tapped at the postcard against an envelope.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Solo," the man said with a laugh.

Napoleon thanked his mailman and headed inside. Slowly, he made his way through his apartment to his chessboard and tacked the postcard up above it, right next to the one from Egypt.

* * *

The weeks crawled by but Illya did not in fact return home. Napoleon didn't panic, exactly. He was sure he sounded very composed and collected when he'd called Waverly to ask where Illya and Gaby happened to be. And he was sure Waverly didn't hear his sigh of relief when the man informed him they had been immediately shuffled off to a new assignment at the end of their last one. 

He stared at the postcards hanging above his chessboard and took a deep breath. He wasn't sure when his relationship with Illya had changed from the resigned acceptance of a working partnership to something _more_ , but it had. He missed Illya. His strong physical presence and heavy accent and the way the smell of his aftershave filled the kitchen as they ate breakfast at the small table in the morning. How he'd been a steadying presence through Napoleon's whole medical ordeal. He missed everything.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Napoleon glanced at the cane resting beside his armchair. He'd gotten it at his last physical therapy appointment. He could just imagine Illya's grin when he found out he was done with the crutches. A second loud knock demanded his attention and he got himself out of the armchair.

"Mail call, Mr. Solo!" His jovial mail man beamed at him from the hallway.

Napoleon smiled warmly at the elderly man. Since he'd found out Napoleon had been injured he'd started hand delivering his mail. "Anything good today, Stan?" he asked.

"Just the usual," the man said as he handed over a small stack of mail.

Napoleon thanked the elderly man and thought to himself he'd have to get him a nice little gift for being so kind to him. He shuffled through the plain envelopes quickly, trying to find anything that would need his immediate attention. One envelope stood out. A pale blue thing with no return address. Napoleon carefully tore it open.

Inside there was only a single photo. Illya standing on some kind of balcony overlooking a dense jungle, hair blowing in a gentle breeze, mirrored sunglasses and a sly smile adorning his face. Napoleon flipped the photo over and found a short message.

_Quick detour. Keep working, Cowboy. Home Soon. Chop Shop Girl says hello._

Napoleon flipped the photo back over and grinned so hard his cheeks hurt. He carefully tacked the photo up bellow the postcards on his wall.

* * *

A loud knock startled Napoleon awake and the book resting in his lap fell to the floor. He hunched forward to snatch the book up and the knocking continued. He grabbed his cane and headed for the front door. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" he called as he ran a hand through his curls and straightened out his sweater.

He opened the front door a crack and found Illya standing in his hallway, dark bags under his eyes. "You're back," Napoleon murmured.

"Da," Illya said, exhaustion evident in his voice.

"You look like shit," Napoleon said with a sly grin, resisting the urge to reach out and caress the Russian's face. 

"Sixteen hour flight," Illya responded flatly. "Are you going to let me in or..."

Napoleon's eyes went wide and he threw the door open. "Of course, yes, come in. Please."

Illya immediately grabbed Napoleon's forearms once the door was opened all the way and gave him a shocked look. "Where are your crutches, Cowboy?" he asked as he looked around wildly. "Stay here, I will get them."

"Peril."

"Just tell me where they are. You can't --"

"Illya."

Illya looked down and met Napoleon's amused grin. He squinted, trying to get his jetlagged brain to work.

Napoleon tapped his cane on the floor and laughed. "I don't need them anymore."

"When?" Illya asked in disbelief, a smile working its way across his lips.

"Two weeks ago."

Napoleon had imagined Illya's reaction to the news a thousand times over since he'd gotten the cane, but he was unprepared for the real thing. Illya tugged him close and wrapped his arms around him tightly.

"Good job, Cowboy," Illya whispered near Napoleon's ear as he released him from his grip. Illya cleared his throat and reached into his pocket. "I got you something, but I'm not sure you'll have use for it now." He held out a brightly colored palm tree key chain.

Napoleon took it carefully and gave Illya a confused look.

"You had trouble with your keys and the crutches. I though this would make them easier to find in your pocket. It's stupid, I can --"

"It's perfect," Napoleon laughed, studying the key chain carefully. "I'll certainly never lose them again." He made his way into the living room, looking for his keys, and motioned for Illya to join him. The Russian stopped in his tracks as he came to the chessboard.

"You kept them?" Illya asked, running his fingers over the postcards and photo tacked up on the wall.

Napoleon carefully lowered himself down onto his couch and picked invisible lint from his pants. "Well, they're lovely postcards. And that _is_  a nice photo of you. Not many of those in existence you know." He hoped Illya wouldn't notice the blush creeping up his neck.

Illya huffed an unamused laugh and rolled his eyes. He sat down next to Napoleon on the couch and leaned his head back. "It's good to be back," he mumbled as he shut his eyes.

Napoleon pulled Illya's hat off his head and placed it on the end table. "It's good to have you back. I'll need to be getting to the grocery store again soon and I'm sure I'll need help with the cart still."

Illya didn't open his eyes but smiled warmly. "Of course."

Napoleon watched as the Russian quickly drifted off to sleep by his side. "I missed you too," he whispered, brushing Illya's hair from his face.

* * *

It was snowing heavily by the time Napoleon pulled his roast out of the oven. It was the perfect meal for the dreary weather and he was quite proud of the fact that he'd cooked it all by himself. Waverly had called him earlier in the day to let him know Illya would be returning from his latest assignment and Napoleon had been in the kitchen since. Illya had been gone nearly a month and Napoleon was eager to see him and show off how well he was doing. And for Napoleon that meant cooking an entire dinner on his own for the first time in months.

He'd barely started preparing some gravy for the roast when there was a faint knock on his front door. "It's open!" Napoleon called as he stirred away at the gravy. He dropped his wooden spoon on the stove top when Illya came to a stop in the doorway of the kitchen.

The Russian had a bandage stuck firmly across the bridge of his nose, dark circles beneath his eyes, his hair stuck up at odd angles, and he had a small paper bag in one hand. Napoleon shut the stove off immediately and made a bee line for Illya. He reached up and smoothed out the shoulders of the man's wrinkled sweater.

"Where's your coat? It's freezing outside," was all Napoleon could muster as fussed over Illya's clothes.

"Not cold enough for heavy coat in California." Illya shrugged and peeked over Napoleon's shoulder. "Did you cook?"

Napoleon nodded absentmindedly. "What happened to your nose?"

"Is nothing. Is that pot roast? Did you cook all this by yourself?" Illya sniffed appreciatively and wandered around Napoleon into the kitchen.

"Yes, I cooked dinner but, Illya, what happened in California?" Napoleon pressed on.

The paper bag in Illya's hand crinkled softly as he pulled the contents out. He pressed an expensive bottle of wine into Napoleon's hand. "I brought wine," he smiled warmly. "From Napa Valley. Supposed to be very good wine. I thought --"

Napoleon leaned up into Illya's space and kissed him gently on the lips.

"You would like it," Illya finished slowly.

Napoleon took a small step back and stared at his shoes. "I'm sorry, I just... missed you terribly."

Illya plucked the bottle of wine out of Napoleon's hands, set it on the kitchen table and moved closer to him. "I missed you too, Cowboy," he whispered. "I thought about you every day. I worried every night. It drove Gaby insane. She said I had to tell you when I got back or she would."

Napoleon chuckled softly. "Sounds like Gaby."

"She is very persistent woman," Illya agreed. He reached out and wrapped his arms around Napoleon's waist. "But very smart." He leaned down and closed the space between them to press a gentle kiss to Napoleon's lips. Napoleon responded eagerly and let his hands wander over Illya's back. Illya pulled away slowly after a while and smiled. "I'm starving," he said seriously.

Napoleon laughed loudly and released Illya. "Let me finish the gravy and we can eat. Open the wine." He reached over to grab his cane and made his way back to the stove.

Illya smiled to himself as he opened the wine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for this pairing and I really hope it's enjoyable! 
> 
> The title is from the song "You Belong To Me", which was also the inspiration for this entire story and worth a listen if you have time :)
> 
> Kudos and comments literally make my whole day


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